


A Vengence Achieved

by Asterbird



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, this is going to be a long fic and I am sorry for that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 21:31:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4495464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asterbird/pseuds/Asterbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mairon has spent three ages beneath Arda, preparing for the unimaginably distant day when Melkor is freed from the Halls of Mandos. Yet the years continue to pass, long after his Lord's release. He does not grow truly resentful, but time wears on even the blindest faith. A slow decay has begun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I'm nervous since this is basically the first fic I've written! Any feedback would be much appreciated.

Mairon sat in his chambers, deep below the surface of Arda, and watched a moth beat its body to cinders against his reading lamp. It fluttered across the hot glass until its wings grew too damaged to function, and thrashed uselessly at the air. When it could no longer fly, the insect dragged itself across the metal rim. There it died, antenna shriveled, tiny face pressed close to the light.  
  
Delicately, Mairon picked up the moth's corpse and dropped it through the top of the lamp, where it was finally united with the fire. It flared brightly, for several seconds, before it was fully consumed and rendered into nothing. Not really nothing, of course. Now it was oxygen, and carbon, and sulfur, being chased off into the air by whatever miserable breeze found it way into Angband's bowls. Mairon waved his hand to dispel the faint traces of smoke, and turned his attention back to the papers spread before him.  
  
He did not need to sleep, but his heavy eyes kept darting to the cot which had been pushed into the corner of his room. Certain biological constraints he could ignore, and he was at no risk of being disembodied, but it wouldn't hurt to rest for a couple hours. Wearily he stood, though the enormity of his task had settled on his back like a funeral shroud. There were still preparations to finish, supplies to acquire, and roads to clear. Any day now, his efforts would come to fruition. It might be within the next month, but he had predicted the same thing last month, and the one before that. A massive chain of years stretched out behind him, and an infinitely greater number before. Mairon dragged himself across the room and sat stiffly on the edge of his bed. It was about noon on the surface, he guessed. Not that it mattered; his orcs slept at night. He did not have time for such things.  
  
His Lord was coming back within the next decade, he was sure of it. His guesses of months had been too eager. News of his release had reached Mairon centuries ago. He knew that he was likely biding his time with a new machination, or gathering his strength in Aman. The Maia they had first brought with them to this world had been dashed to pieces in the undertaking of his Lord's work, or lost defending Utumno. It stood to reason that he would be trying to recruit new followers. The Valaraukar were as mighty as the day they had assumed their terrible forms, of course, but even they could not live forever. Neither could Mairon.  
  
He ran his hands through his hair, which had come undone from its braid and hung limply against his shoulders. Mairon had a job to do, but had been cast hopelessly out to sea, without direction. He had to keep building, keep inventing, keep improving upon what he had. That, at least, was clear. He had been left with two ruined fortresses, and consolidated all of his effort in the least damaged of the two. Simply salvaging had taken half an age. The orcs had been bred back from a bottleneck in their population, which left them with a considerably more limited pool of traits, and higher instances of inbreeding. Only his Lord knew how to make new ones, from relative scratch. Now, they were back to their previous numbers. Yet doubt kept creeping into the edges of his thoughts. There was no way to ask for directions, nor receive orders. Everything he did was a continuation of what his Lord, in his mastery, had started three ages ago. But every day was spent beneath a hammer, which could hurtle downwards at any moment and smash them all to pieces. The Valar could come back and finish the job, and throw him in the halls of Mandos, where he would at least have company.  
  
But they never did.  
  
These thoughts had disturbed him enough to make any sleep impossible. Instead, he left his quarters to stalk nervously down the halls of Angband, which stretched outwards and upwards with every minute, like an enterprising fungus. He sometimes had the feeling that it spread by itself, regardless of his interference. Perhaps his Lord's hand reached farther than any had guessed, or perhaps his orcs got confused and built new halls where none had been planned. The one direction they did not go was down. Certain experiments had been sealed there, beneath the lowest storerooms and dungeons, and Mairon was not willing to disturb them. Those were projects for another time, when his master returned. He left them alone only partially out of trepidation, and mostly as a sort of reassurance.  
  
He left his chambers and walked to where he could pretend to be busy, deeper and deeper into the fortress. As he descended, a palpable charge of energy began to grow. The Valaraukar, who had little to do in times of relative peace, leaked power. It hummed in the air whenever they were near. This struck terror into most, but Mairon was familiar with it. It set his teeth on edge, and made his tongue taste of copper. Had his hair not been so matted, it would have risen about his head in fiery halo. All it did now was frame his sunken face.  
  
Orcs scuttled out of his way, but these halls were mostly empty. All of the construction, overseen by his own subordinates, was taking place on the very edges of Angband. He rounded a corner and descended yet another staircase, which opened up into a large underground cavern. Several large, utilitarian chandeliers hung from the ceiling, but theirs was not the brightest glow. Beneath them sat a roiling monstrosity of horn and smoke, which burned even as it rose to full height. It was fire and ash turned to a mockery of flesh, which consumed and created itself to avoid being snuffed out. The smell of charred wood filled the air as the Balrog opened its jaws and rumbled with a noise like shifting earth.  
  
"About noon," answered Mairon in his carefully engineered voice, smoothing his robes with both hands. They would be covered in soot by the time he left the chamber, he knew. There were certain advantages to wearing black. "I wanted to speak to you about the wood for the ballistas. Unless we manage it incrementally, there is no way to get all of that lumber down here without attracting notice."  
  
The Balrog hissed and shifted slightly. One thick limb extended from the cloud of smoke to tap impatiently against the floor with its claws of black ivory. Another five arms joined it as the explanation continued.  
  
"That might work if we bring a fog in, I suppose," Mairon muttered, watching the Balrog gesture hypnotically. Its limbs trailed ash as they moved. "I will see what I can do. Enough molten slag in one of the kettle lakes could produce a massive amount of steam, if we let the wind do the rest."  
  
With a deep groan, the Balrog sank back to the floor and tucked several of its arms into the perpetual smoke. Its grumbling continued for a couple of seconds, ranging from the grating of light stones to heavy noises found only beneath miles of rock.  
  
Mairon shook his head, "We cannot afford to waste steel on siege engines. These remain an untried experiment, and I cannot waste materials that would otherwise be spent on arms and armor," he opened his mouth to suggest an alternative, but suddenly became aware of another presence. It was as powerful as the Balrog's, but far away, and felt through layers of stone. In the smoke and the smell, he had not noticed it. Panic shot through him- had something been freed from Angband's cellars? Something that was now clawing its way to the surface? Whatever it was, he realized, it was coming from above, and far away.  
  
Then, there was a bellow, wrenching like nothing Mairon had ever heard. It echoed from beneath and above and within him, and set the bones of his skull grinding against each other.  
  
The Balrog coiled itself backwards, like a great cat, and launched itself across the room with manic speed. Mairon had to flatten himself to the wall to avoid being run down as the creature, far wider than the stairwell, forced itself up and through the narrow space. He was briefly lost, but something clicked in his head, like the tumblers of an intricate lock, and his confusion was replaced by rabid urgency.  
  
Mairon raced upwards, assuming a terrible shape as he did so. Every other thought had been chased to the corners of his mind by that great shout, and the realization that followed. He made wings of the arms that he had, and sprouted four new ones from his groaning ribs. He stretched his face into a horrible mockery of itself to accommodate a mouthful of teeth, and turned his robes to feathers and scales. There was no resisting the changes, but he didn't have enough space in his head to care. He tore through the repaired corridors of Angband, pulled by an unrelenting force.  

Outside the mountain, a faint rumble began. A jackdaw ceased its pecking and fluttered nervously into a thin tree. The rumble grew, until it became a roar.

Mairon and the Balrogs erupted from the ruined gates of Angband in a deluge of smoke and talons and shining sabered teeth. Their master had called. Like moths to a black flame, they answered. The jackdaw shrieked and plunged to safety, its black eyes reflecting the horrible spectacle.  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Angband's deep hall echoed with the shrieks and shuffles of more than a thousand orcs. They spilled from the doors, which had been flung open, and flooded the hallways beyond. The servants of Angband did not require a show of power; orcs did not need to be encouraged or goaded into following the word of their master. The gathering was not intended to raise morale. They came because it never crossed their minds not to, and because their Lord had returned victorious.  
  
Dark stone columns rose from a sea of crowded flesh, which lapped at their bases and scrambled up their sides, only to fall back again. Several dozen would be trampled to death before the night was through. They hissed and spat at one another, occasionally baring claws or sharpened teeth, and fought for the places closest to the dais. It did not matter if they could see their Lord. All the orcs wanted was to be near.  
  
Mairon saw this from where he stood near the throne, and witnessed their pathetic desperation. An orc would be lucky to last a hundred years, and this was the greatest moment in any of their brief, violent lives. The first and last time most would see the one responsible for their creation, and they screamed their gratefulness with voices cruelly twisted by improvised biology. A dozen feet from the dais, their advance suddenly halted, and they could come no further. One stumbled, and let itself be ground to death under the weight of others, rather than approach the throne. Its skull cracked like a melon in the sun, but its eyes still twisted upwards to look at He Who Arises in Might, and the Balrogs who flanked him.  
  
Mairon did not dare to follow the orc's gaze. He never dreamed, but perhaps he had fallen asleep on his cot, all those hours ago. His preparation for this moment had spanned more than centuries; it stretched across ages, over thousands of years. He had spent a decade perfecting a single aspect of the trigger mechanism for a catapult, and two more implementing it into the overall design. Even more time had been spent researching alloys, and developing steels. Every change or improvement represented an entire lifetime for an orc, and a mere fraction of Mairon's. Yet his Lord had paid no mind to the new gates he had raised, nor the great walls he had patched and repaired to be stronger than before. It was a reminder of his own irrelevance, in the face of the power of a Vala. What took him months would take his master a minute, perhaps less. The reminder was comforting; Mairon was nothing. Gradually, he braced himself, and looked up to the throne.  
  
Lord Melkor was much the same as he had been. Large, sharp, and predatory. The iron crown was new, though the same material as his throne. A chunk was missing from the armrest, as if it had been scooped like soft butter, which might explain the similarity. His hair was dark and snarled, and smoked faintly beneath the presence of the Silmarils. As it burned, it grew, and the smell of singeing wafted down to Mairon. It was a steady drain of power, he knew, to keep such a system functioning properly. Creating hair with molecules ripped from the air, or forcing it into existing through sheer will. Whatever Lord Melkor was doing, it obviously was not taxing him much. He stared out across the orcs, who were beyond transfixed. Mairon hoped that it wouldn't cause any lasting damage to their minds. He needed them to be able to follow orders coherently and quickly. Subordination to the point of docility never benefited orcs.  
  
As if he had heard this blasphemous thought, his Lord's gaze flicked down to him. Freed, the orcs abruptly pulled away from the dais. They seemed bewildered before fear overtook their simple brains. An orc is a predator, until it becomes inconvenient. In less than two minutes, they had fled the hall, and left only their crushed fellows behind.  
  
Trailing flakes of burnt skin, Lord Melkor raised his left hand, as well as his dark eyes. The doors, which stood halfway up the soaring walls, screamed slowly into motion. It was the noise a mountain would make if you crushed the life out of it, and Mairon had heard it been done. It took another minute for them to be forced shut, and he winced at the deep grooves they had left in the flagstones. Rough, irreversible claw marks. He knew better than to think of repairing them. Their creation had been as deliberate as the orcs. As his own.  
  
" _You did well to prepare,_ " Melkor shifted on the throne into a deep sprawl, " _They will return, but will remain cowards in their hearts. We shall not see them for many years, yet. Not until they think themselves more than capable,_ " There was a weighty pause as he craned his neck to look up at the distant ceiling. The smoke rolling off the Balrogs made it look even loftier than it already was. " _There have been no recent encounters with the Sindar?_ "  
  
Mairon hissed out a reply from between his warped jaws, which still bristled with animal teeth.  
  
" _Good,_ " Lord Melkor stood, rising to a height greater than any he had seemed to possess while seated. The crown grew with him, but the Silmarils did not, and became a trio of far-off stars against the vaulted roof of night. " _I expect to be informed of any significant changes made in mine absence._ " He strode off the dais and between the heavy columns, which did not so much loom over him as frame his departure. Mairon waited a long second before following.  
  
He had not the time nor the energy to return to his preferred form, but dredged up some dismal remains of strength to assume a more agreeable shape. When he had been called, hours ago, he had been overwhelmingly compelled to sprout limbs and talons. Now he was having a more difficult time shedding them. When finally he drew close to his lord, he had managed to dissolve the wings and feathers, and restored his face with a final burst of effort. The four arms would have to wait, and his jawbone still ached from the sudden change. Such drastic alterations had never been easy.  
  
The great doors swung open again as his Lord approached them, now sliding smoothly in the grooved floor. Mairon had to hurry to avoid being crushed as they shut. The hallway beyond, with its lower ceiling, was one of the many which radiated out from the center of the fortress, like a web. Melkor surveyed it silently with his back to his lieutenant.  
  
"My Lord," Mairon began, folding his multiple arms nervously behind him, "This whole section has been repaired, with reinforced arches where we previously experienced collapse, during the last invasion. We're implementing that design in any further expansion, of course," he swallowed dryly, as the whole process of changing his shape had made him feel ill, "It distributes pressure more evenly,"  
  
" _I see_ ," Melkor began to stalk down the hallway, the crude spikes of his crown occasionally knocking a chunk of masonry from the ceiling. The dust rained down behind him. " _Perhaps we shall avoid your complete structural failure of last time. I wish to rest, for a brief while. This conversation can be finished later._ "  
  
Mairon bobbed his head quickly and stopped mid-stride. That was not a conversation he would be relishing. A moment spent in the presence of his Lord was more valuable than the thousands of years he had squandered alone, of course. His relative uselessness was staggering. But that did not mean he had to enjoy it. "Yes, my Lord."  
  
The Lord in question did not answer, and melded into the darkness at the end of the hallway. There had been torches lit there, but they choked off into plumes of smoke as Melkor passed. Mairon waited for the ones closest to him to gutter out, and stood in the enveloping blackness.  
  
With both of his left hands trailing along the wall, he began to feel his way back to the deep hall, which was a tiny pinprick of light at the far end of the corridor. Behind him, the footsteps of his master retreated, and Mairon realized that he had not been so afraid for three ages.


	3. Chapter 3

Angband ran on a precise schedule. Carts trundled up from the damper southern regions of the fortress, laden with algae and slick, edible fungus. Hours later, they left carrying refuse, which was poured back into the deep pools to feed the plants which grew there (and anything else which lurked beneath the opaque surface). When it rained, the cisterns filled again, supplying water for further agriculture and the forging of iron. The iron came from the north, where sedimentary rocks carried thick veins of ore. Mairon had witnessed their creation, of course. Even then, the dark seeds of imagining had been planted in his mind, and he spent hours smelting and refining. Perhaps he had known at the time that this knowledge would be useful, when he was warring against the beings responsible for his creation. He had been dreaming of blades before the singing of swords.  
  
The first orcs had required no blades, only claws and thick hide. They had been more terrifying, perhaps, and stronger. Yet Mairon's were more effective at what they did. Vast amounts of pig iron were melted in blast-furnaces, and then forged into simple cuirasses. Falchions, spears, and jagged knives spilled from the workshops he had created, enough to supply an army even greater than the one he had now. Liberties had been taken in the arming of the orcs, and in the extent of their inbreeding. There had been no other choice, he rationalized. Lord Melkor had expected an invasion force ready and waiting for his return, and that could not be achieved without taking certain drastic measures.  
  
Mairon stood on a constructed balcony far above a grayish lake, which gurgled sluggishly and smelled like rotten eggs. Beneath him, a draft of warm air issued from a circular opening in the mountainside. Two carts could walk abreast through it and have room for an orc on either side, as he had learned several decades ago. The sky was overcast, and he was in shade, but the ambient brightness was shocking, and the clear air unfamiliar. It would be worth it, however. In two minutes, yet another feat of engineering would occur. He timed it with his heartbeat.  
   
He peered down to watch a jackdaw flutter into the round cave, which smelled even more foul than the lake. Relishing the shelter from the winds, it ruffled its feathers in a warm, stinking pool that had gathered just before the lip. The creature pecked resolutely at the stone, and raised its black head in brief alarm.  
  
With a roar, over four tons of boiling water and slag rushed out of the circular opening, accompanied by several ounces of bird. The mixture plummeted a hundred feet through the air and hit the water with enough force to send a great spout upwards. Mairon stepped back and shielded his eyes against the sight with his (thankfully only) left hand. It was beautiful.  
  
Utunmo had not been raised or built. It had been carved by brute force and will from the flesh of the mountain, and sat like a cancerous rot in the landscape. There had been little worth salvaging. Now, Angband's technology was centuries ahead of what the Sindar could muster. It was a masterpiece. He had dragged the fortress and all of its occupants kicking and screaming into the third age (and the second, and the first).  
  
Watching the contamination of a formerly pristine body of water had cheered him somewhat, but there was an ache growing in his temples. Mairon loosed his hair from its tight bun, which did little to help, and began to cast around for an answer. Normally, he would be able to root through his unfortunately biological parts to find the problem. Most of the time it was a clump of cells that had decided, through freak chance, to multiply rapidly. This time it was nothing. He ducked back inside and swept down the tight spiral stairway, rubbing his head. Abruptly, some barrier in his mind cracked, and the ache's cause was clear. He was to report to the deep hall, the pain told him, where he would be expected to run through any significant changes made in Lord Melkor's absence. Then, it vanished, and he was left with the curious memory of discomfort. Mairon would have preferred a harried orc messenger to any sort of mental interference.    
  
Someone had rekindled the torches lining the corridor, since he had last been there. The orcs could see in the dark, but he needed a small degree of light, and thus the whole fortress was kept lit. As Mairon walked, he repaired the bits of archway which had been damaged by his Lord's passing. He would have to try very hard to keep any hint of annoyance out of his voice.  
  
One of the massive doors was ajar. More than a hundred feet away, Lord Melkor was standing next to his throne, his head tilted upwards. He turned, though Mairon had not made a sound, and raised a black hand in what might have been a greeting. Above him, the Silmarils shone.  
  
The new grooves in the floor were so deep, Mairon had to leap over them to avoid an undignified scramble. His booted feet were loud in the great, empty chamber. Only the columns served to fracture the echo of his steps, which otherwise would have bounced off the vaulted ceiling. He slowly approached his Lord, who was now inspecting one of the pillars at its wide base.  
  
" _Lieutenant_ ," Melkor had decided to be only two feet taller than him, today. He was in a good mood. " _The scope of your machinations is vast. There have been many changes_ ,"  
  
The Maia nodded and swept his hair back from his face with both hands, as he did when approaching a difficult task. "My thanks, Lord."  
  
" _I was not congratulating thee._ "  
  
Mairon had not been blessed with the hereditary intuition of lesser creatures. He developed a flight instinct through experience, and took a half step backwards. An inch of separation was a good inch. "Forgive me, my Lord,"  
  
" _I was not condemning thee, either. I should like to hear an explanation. These are not works that exist in Aman, nor anywhere in Arda._ " He ran his fingers across the mechanically perfect grooves which had been etched into the column. " _This was done by hand?_ "  
  
And so the Mairon's explanations began. Everything had been changed. The cave-ins which had doomed them in Utunmo were now prevented by weight-bearing arches, thick pillars, and buttresses of imported wood. Valaraukar had blasted chutes and cisterns for waste and water, so they could withstand sieges and increase production. In a worst case scenario, there existed a tunnel, strictly one-way, meant for escape into the foothills. He designed carts and taught the trolls to haul them, built towering blast-furnaces which belched flue gasses from the mountaintops, and fed an army with algae. At any moment, the whole operation could retract back underground, and wait out prolonged assault like a turtle in its shell. He systematically listed everything he had done in those three ages, and it took him a day and a half. Except for that first step, he stayed completely still.  
  
Melkor did not speak, throughout the whole presentation. At one point, he moved to lean against the armrest of his throne with a pained expression, and flexed his charred hands. Yet his eyes never lost their interest, and sat like two pieces of coal in the ashen planes of his face.  
  
When Mairon finished reciting the specifics of an experimental steel basilica, he was startled to find that he was done, and that there was nothing left to say. He bowed again, hair swinging across his shoulders, and began to analyze his words for mistakes. Had he forgotten anything? Failed to list an achievement?  
  
" _You have built in the manner of the elves_ ," Melkor began, " _Refining and reshaping by hand, rather than by will. There is little power here. Thine achievements will be mimicked by lesser beings, in time._ "  
  
The criticism festered bitterly, "I am aware of this, my Lord," Mairon chose his words like they were delicate instruments for a difficult repair, "Our enemies here will one day learn to make steel, and copy the design of our siege engines. But when they do, we shall have already built greater things, and remain far ahead."  
  
Melkor pushed himself off the armrest and sank languidly into the throne, " _And what of my enemies who have no need for steel? It was they who cast down my last fortress._ "  
  
The Maia gestured downwards, "I have not disturbed what lies in the cellars,"  
  
His Lord grinned like a starving wolf, and rested one armored foot on the opposite knee, " _A wise decision, Mairon_."  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some things about Melkor's speech, which I've hopefully been consistent with! I'm using 15th-16th century (sort of) grammar. 'Thou' and 'thee' indicate familiarity, but also suggest superiority over the person you're addressing. So he'd use them for basically everyone else. 'Mine' and 'thine' only occur if the word after starts with a vowel. I miiight be starting a lot of words with vowels as an accuse to make him say thine and mine. Maybe.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, this one is a bit longer than the other two. Most of my chapters should be around 2k-2.5k from now on, I think. I'm aiming for a pretty long fic. Also not entirely sure if I'm doing this right, any feedback would be appreciated!

Months later, a bleak summer had crawled up the mountains, and set their icecaps to melting. Water cascaded into deep gullies, where tunnels drew it down to the holding pools, and kept it somewhat cold. Before long, algae would bloom on their still surfaces, and spread downwards with millions of tiny roots. Then it would be dredged up, and dried, and fed to the various servants of evil who lived in (or beneath) Arda. The system ran practically by itself, after four thousand years of seamless operation. Unlike the smelting of pig iron, there was little one could really do wrong when it came to harvesting such resilient plant life. At this point, there was no reason to even send an overseer, as the orcs were more than familiar with the simple work.  
  
Mairon stood and watched anyway, because the reeking caverns were preferable to the uppermost levels, where His Lord prowled and schemed. Melkor did not plan, he had decided. He plotted and conspired, without thinking of any conceivable way to launch his ideas into action. This had become Mairon's job again, as it had been before Utumno fell. Great vengeances were proposed, and he was left to figure out a way to make them all function seamlessly. Last night, he had spent hours shoving elements together in an effort to make them combustible, with little success. It had been a waste of his time.  
  
Being largely confined to the deep hall did not help matters, either. The only way out was through the massive doors, which he could not open by himself. They were ajar when he approached, though only just enough for him to squeeze painfully between, with tons of rock on either side. When he began to walk between the columns, the doors would boom shut behind him, and he would conduct his experiments on the first step of the dais.  
  
Melkor was rarely there. Yet the doors always closed when Mairon entered, and opened a day later. Sometimes, his Lord would be seated in his throne, his chin supported by one black hand as he oversaw the activities of Angband. There were no windows in the deep hall, but Melkor watched without eyes, and drummed his fingers on the armrest every couple of hours. Mairon would work beneath him, perhaps creating a desk from the stone when he needed it, but otherwise silent. The tasks assigned to him were great. So great that he was beginning to think them impossible. He was usually alone in the deep hall, though. Some comfort lay in that, but now he feared the great doors themselves, and what could lie beyond. He never knew if he was to have company until he was through them.  
  
That was why he hid a mile beneath the mountain, staring across a clear lake. It would not be so clear in a week, but now it was crystalline and deep. Mairon took a step forward, and let the water lap at the toes of his boots. Beneath the surface, shapes wheeled and swirled. They were blind fish, old as the rock itself, which butted against his shins as he waded deeper. The fish never crested, and only the Maia's steps disturbed the stillness. Better to be down here, where he could think with some privacy. Better to have his mind to himself.  
  
Up to his waist, Mairon let the cold numb him, and steal the feeling from his blueish fingertips. So horrifyingly biological. His clothes, no longer robes but breeches and shirts, were sodden and heavy. The next step took him deeper than the last, and when he ducked his head under, he found the lake to stretch downwards into blue oblivion. There was no bottom, only a deep pit that descended into the dark, fractured by the passage of the white fish. It was easy to imagine it as an entrance to the Halls of Mandos, one which had hidden under Angband without his knowing, unnoticed until it was too late to join his Lord there. He would have eagerly descended, in ages past. Now it seemed naught but a void.  
  
Half an hour later, he was seated on the hard dais, letting an unstable lump of gray metal decay in his hands. It shed atoms like fur from a hound, and dwindled to a sad nub of material. Mairon frowned and crushed the radiation back towards the object, with little success. He should understand how this worked, since he'd helped created it. After several minutes, he gave up, and dispersed the metal harmlessly.  
  
Behind him, Melkor shifted in his throne. He seemed to grow more pained by the weight of his crown, but never removed it. His hair had begun to snarl around its jagged spikes, as though the ornament had become a part of himself. Smoke drifted upwards from his brow, into the distant rafters, but it was not Mairon's place to question his strength. A silence filled the hall, punctuated by the deep booms of production from further beneath. They were a testament to his other victories.  
  
" _Have you found success?_ " his Lord's words shuddered through the air, mocking and sharp.  
  
"Not yet, no," Mairon did not turn around to answer, "I will find a combination eventually. A matter of time, my Lord."  
  
" _You refuse to turn to the way which is most familiar,_ " a distinct note of displeasure had entered Melkor's voice, and he rose slowly from the throne. His armor clinked as he approached the edge of the dais with slow steps, armor which Mairon had helped forge. " _Why waste thine efforts in these limited ways? What do you hope to find that my power cannot already bring?_ "  
  
Horribly, biologically, Mairon's mouth went very dry. He had to cough before answering, and twisted to look up at his Lord, who towered over him. From here, he seemed taller than any of the columns; the Silmarils glinted coldly. "In those ages, I found machines to be more useful to me. Alone, I was not capable of such acts of power. It was simpler to build with what existed here already."  
  
" _And you are alone now?_ "  
  
A weighty pause, "No, my Lord," he turned hesitantly away, his shoulders hunched. The chill of the lake had not quite left his fingers, which was a convenient explanation for why they were shaking so violently. Concentrating was never easy, when another was near, and all of his physical notes had been left in his chambers more than a half mile away. It would be a long walk through the corridors to find them. He waited for several minutes to elapse before standing, gingerly, and working the stiffness out of his hands. The joints cracked loudly in the hall, which carried their echoes.  
  
Melkor turned at the sound, his face blank as stone. Mairon again noticed the charred flesh that began at his wrists and extended to the tips of his fingers. Like the jewels which burned his hair, these fires seemed to smoulder unceasingly. New flesh grew as he watched, replacing the old as a snake sheds its dull skin. His Lord held his arms slightly away from his body, and treated his hands like deadweight, when he was not using them. It was a voracious, continuous rot.  
  
"Forgive me, Lord, I need to retrieve some papers. If you don't mind..." Mairon's voice trailed off, and he gestured towards the far-off doors, and the deep grooves which marked the path they made upon opening.  
  
" _I mind. Gothmog will be meeting us here._ "  
  
"Of course," Mairon shot a last wistful glance towards the doors, but felt an unexpected, cold weight. When he looked back, it was gone, though flecks of ash dotted his shirt. Lord Melkor had steadied himself on the Maia's shoulder as he turned away, leaving the smell of burning hair in his wake. Mairon was left to ponder the implications of this in the heavy emptiness of the hall, his experiments abandoned at his feet. No more progress would be made today, he figured that much.  
  
After long hours, a taste like copper filled Mairon's mouth, and his hair began to crackle with static. Irritably, he whipped it into a braid and watched the doors grind open. A Valaraukar was pushing them without the use of magic, its shoulders bent against the stone, mighty head bowed. Another followed behind it, greater in stature, and made of more fire than smoke. Heat hit Mairon's face before its stink did; brimstone and charred meat.  
  
The monstrosity opened its stiff jaws and spoke. Gothmog would be the last of the Balrogs to lose his words, "Fëanor hath landed at firth Drengist, with his host," he tilted his head, which was a condensed lump of flame behind the rising ash, "Their ships burn on the water. One son is dead," Mairon later came to recognize this moment as the root of a sickened tree, which would span three ages and tangle him within its branches. At the moment, it was just a report of an expected outcome, running like clockwork.  
  
His Lord stood to confer with the Valaruakar, who rumbled his worlds so deeply that they flowed into one another. It was like listening to a volcano speak, and there was a wet, globbish undertone to his pronouncements. The creatures had some ability to change their shape, so Gothmog had shrunken nearly as small as he could, which still left him towering over the throne. He was more cohesive than his fellows, and was not often lost in a shroud of smoke, as they tended to be.  
  
Wrinkling his nose at the smell, Mairon folded his arms. He had not sat, since he had been denied permission to leave, and merely stared out across the hall. His inaction could have been read as insubordination, but Lord Melkor would have seen through any more work as a mimicry of real progress. Proper work was impossible, without some privacy and his notes.  
  
"Lieutenant," Gothmog snapped, as if for the second or third time, "Our Lord wishes to know of the recent activities of the Sindar in Nevrast, near the firth,"  
  
"I mentioned it previously, we have not had any encounters," Mairon responded, his mouth set in a thin line.  
  
"We need not encounter them to learn of their movements. Have you sent scouts to the area?" the Balrog's voice had become too polite, suddenly, which was more dangerous than his anger.  
  
The conversation was sliding rapidly downhill, and Gothmog certainly knew the answer to that question. Mairon braced himself. "Scouts have not been sent out for years, I have been concentrating my effort here. Nevrast was never a concern of mine."  
  
Melkor took quick step forward, his right hand extended. There was no expression on his face, just the same stony mask as always, letting nothing show. He closed his fingers around Mairon's throat and lifted him off the ground with one motion.  
  
Mairon first noticed that his Lord's hand was colder than he imagined, considering they were burnt. Then he began to asphyxiate as quietly as he could, because he knew the noises were amusing, to him. Breath was impossible, and the crushing pressure made his head ring. The edge of Melkor's palm, between his thumb and forefinger, was digging painfully into the Maia's jawbone. Mairon opened his mouth and kicked a foot downwards, trying to find the floor again, but couldn't. Thrashing might break his neck, and keep him out of commission for weeks. Instead he hung as limply as he could, like a hangman, and felt his head begin to spin. He glanced to Gothmog, who stood with his own gaze averted. Perhaps this was the Balrog's own form of respect. It mattered little, when Mairon's windpipe was locked in a vice-grip. The Silmarils above were the only stars he saw in the wheeling confusion of his vision.  
  
Growing desperate for air, Mairon raised his hands and wrapped them around Melkor's wrist. He did not have the strength to do anything more. The skin felt like cracked mud beneath his own undamaged fingers, cold and unfeeling. At this, his Lord abruptly released him, and he dropped to the steps of the dais.  
  
Now was the time for undignified noises. The routine was familiar. Mairon gasped and heaved, hunched forward with one arm raised protectively. His hair had come undone from its braid, and hung limply around his face, which was spotchy red in some places and frighteningly pale in others. After several scratchy breaths, he choked out an apology and lurched to his feet, but did not bow for fear of falling over. A line of spit and blood trailed from one corner of his mouth to his chin, where it had been smudged by Melkor's hand.  
  
His Lord did not speak, and turned back to Gothmog. It was a clear dismissal.  
  
More than a hundred feet stretched between Mairon and the doors. He made his way slowly down, trying to repair the bruising in his throat before it became visible. The second Balrog, which stood subserviently on the threshold, rumbled quietly and stepped out of his way, its bowed head visible for a second behind the clouds of ash. 


	5. Chapter 5

When it stormed above Angband, the thunder cut into the rock of the fortress and jarred its aching bones with all the might of a hammer striking an anvil. No matter how deep Mairon went, great rolling booms echoed down through tunnels and mines, and reached him in full strength. He covered his ears, and hid in the darkest places he knew, but still he heard the crash of air filling voids left by forks of lightning. There was no escaping it.

He wrapped his hands around his mottled throat and tried to rub away the ache. A blood vessel in his left eye had popped, flooding the white with red. His vision was blurred and wavering. Beneath these superficial injuries was another hurt which gathered in his chest and threatened to push its way to the surface, like a blind, white fish. His Lord was still dangerous and rapidly changeable- and should he not be glad of this? The blow would not have been unexpected in Utumno, when he had not truly realized the extent of the danger. It had happened again, three ages later, and Mairon was back where he had been at the start. It hurt to swallow, and to breathe, but the other Maia would notice if he healed himself now. He should have done it sooner, before word of his failure spread, but it was too late now.

Instead, Mairon slunk through hallways and corridors beneath the wavering light of torches, and let his bruises fade to yellow stains on his skin, tinged with purple at their center. His exhalations whistled painfully in his windpipe, and he wore the collars of his shirts up. There were more meetings, of course, where he would wait patiently at the back and comment when necessary. Scouts were sent to Nevrast. The most important reminder had been the forbidden nature of 'mine'. He could utter 'my Lord', perhaps, but Angband was not his to claim or refer to. Even an 'our' was walking on thin ice, by implying some sort of equality. Yet he had to make an appearance today, as plans were being driven into action, and he was needed. His presence was specifically requested, with the weighty threat of punishment if he refused.

In the newly-created war room he had briefly met Melkor's eyes, which darted imperceptibly down to his throat. After that, it seemed, Mairon was back in good graces. The other commanders were quick to forget, and brought their attention to the newest scheme; Thangorodrim. The mountains would disrupt the flow of water to the cisterns, and change the way the winds tugged and pulled at the mills used for sawing wood. Mairon kept his mouth shut, and gave orders to clear the designated area. A decision like this might have taken him years to make, on his own. Equipment that was too heavy to move in time had been left, and only the more important orcs were evacuated. The rest were allowed to scurry for cover, which was more clemency than they were usually granted. There had been another, secret command given to Mairon, which had set uneasiness in the back of his mind. He did not know what to make of it, but it required his presence on the given day.

The privileged few who knew of the mountains' coming gathered on the balcony above a polluted lake, over which a great pipe pumped slag into the waters. It was still raining, and the echoes of distant thunder marked the storm's retreat. A break in the clouds allowed a bit of brilliant starlight through. The Balrogs were somewhat diminished in the grayish illumination, which called more attention to black ash than unquenchable flame. A few of the other remaining Maia were there, each unnerving and twisted in their own way. A monster somewhere between a falcon and a rat peered out across the vista, while a woman with eight arms and hair the color of stormclouds shielded her single eye against the day. Rain hissed and evaporated on the bodies of the Valaraukar. Though Mairon would have considered himself the most mundane looking there, the others cast him fearful glances normally reserved for his Lord. He kept his collar high and his eyes straight ahead. There was no telling when he would see a sight such as this again, if he ever did.

Melkor, now a hundred feet tall, waded through banks of clouds. His feet were hidden, but the brittle splintering of pine trees echoed up from where he walked. Around him was a thrum of power, intense to the point of painful. From such a distance, his face was hardly visible, and his hair was a miasma of shadow that settled across his shoulders in a dark mantle. He moved as if underwater, every movement calculated and careful, for once. Maintaining a form so large was no simple task, and hardly necessary for the forming of new land, yet he had adopted it anyway. A show of force and resolve, before all of his subordinates.

Melkor lifted one arm, and a great clump of grayish earth and metal rose upwards to follow it, dripping water and mud. The slag from Mairon's forges, dredged from the lakes and repurposed into mountains; made into something greater by magic. It was like standing next to the blast furnaces themselves; creation of the sort Arda had not witnessed for ages. It might have been a scene from the making of the world, if not for the Silmarils, visible even from here. The slag twisted and hardened, writhing snakelike in midair before settling itself into peaks and slopes. More came after, from the scrap piles and rustyards. The entire twisted carcass of a ruined ballista, caught in the flow of sludge, climbed slowly up the growing flank of a mountainside and protruded like a vestigial limb. Slowly, the mountains began to solidify, and lost their liquid nature. A ochre mist blew off them as the stinking water was burnt away.

The Maia dropped to their knees, or forelimbs, and then retreated quickly into the darkness of the fortress, with no small amount of relief. After several minutes, the air no longer smelled of burning wood or sulfur, and Mairon was left by himself to survey the new mountains. They looked volcanic, for in a way they had been made by layering material until it reached a sharp point. Their bases had overtaken a lumberyard and a small windmill, and blocked the passage of a brook, but had not done as much damage as he expected. Clouds scattered in disarray around them.

Then came the part he had been ordered to perform. His Lord did not stagger as he approached, but uncaringly crushed a barracks in his advance. One foot plunged deep into the gray lake, but it was like stepping in a puddle, for him. His craggy face remained impassive, and the Silmarils were glittering beetles set in his massive crown, their size unchanged.

Mairon reached out a hand, and between one instant and the next, found himself helping a much diminished Melkor back onto the balcony. The shift from mountain-sized to normalcy had been too quick to witness, and was accompanied by no fanfare nor thunderous booms.

Melkor dropped the Maia's hand like it was a rotten thing and sagged against the rock, his teeth clenched. The grayish cast to his skin was more pronounced, and seemed to wash the darkness out of his hair, which was a tangled rat's nest. It was one of the few times he had been below Mairon, as he crouched low in exhaustion.

"My Lord?" Mairon asked, taking an unsure step forward, his arms raised to placate, "This may be beyond me. I could find one of our healers, if you wish. She was just here, the one with the rat's face and the feathers-"

" _Quiet_ ," Melkor snapped, and dug one hand into the wall like it was sand, leaving a deep gouge. Slowly he gained his footing, and straightened so that he was taller once more, " _I do not want anyone else here, foul enough is your presence,_ " He sighed, and dragged one blackened hand down the length of his face. There was more tiredness than malice in his voice, as though words were a force of habit, " _you received thine orders. Begin, damn thee_."

Mairon's brow knit, and he lowered his arms. The thought struck him that, if he refused, Melkor might not be able to do anything about it. Yet his eyes darted to the stone, which his lord had crushed without a thought.

His delay was noticed, and the malice came back.

" _Begin, Mairon, or I will snap the ribs from your spine and pin thee to the mountainside with them._ "

Mairon began. His own power was miniscule, when compared to the Vala's, but it was greater than some and rationed more carefully than most. With the exception of shapeshifting, it was rarely used. He searched within himself and found the forces which kept him together, binding his mind to his body and forcing blood in his veins. There was enough there to give. Closing his eyes, he began to empty his own reserves of strength, the very essence of his life, and pass them to his Lord. At first, there were no sensations at all, but he began to feel very thin as parts of himself drained away.

It hurt, like a thread rooted in his stomach was being pulled out through his throat, turning him inside out. The warmth left his limbs and coiled in his chest before leaving his body as a sacred, horrible offering, choked out between his jaws. Mairon's eyes glazed over, and he was met with the blurred sight of his Lord's face, beneath those three cold stars. When he tried to look away, he found the act impossible. The loss of something so long kept had rooted him to the spot, and if death was a threshold which could be crossed, he was approaching it at a run. All he could smell was burning hair, and the faint damp of the rain, but then even that left him.

Mairon woke up on the ground with a headache like no other and the sense of something missing. He watched the clouds from beyond the balcony railing, and blinked slowly. There was a presence above him, a shadow that blotted out the light. His head seemed to split with pain when he tried to focus his eyes, and resigned himself to lying on the floor, hair fanned out behind him.

A large hand dug into his upper arm while another wrapped across his back, and the Maia was suddenly upright, leaning against something sharp and cold. Armor, then. The sudden reorientation made him want to be sick, but he had not eaten anything in centuries, and there was nothing left in him to cough out. He did not protest as he was dragged back into the fortress proper, barely bothering to move his feet. The lake and Thangorodim disappeared, and the yellow light of the torches hurt his eyes.

At one point they passed the corridor which would have taken them to his chambers, but continued without stopping. He twisted around to look back and murmured something about going to bed, but the hand on his arm traveled to the back of his neck with enough threatening pressure to keep him still.

The doors to the deep hall were open, and did not shut behind them when they entered. Mairon was dropped, fairly gently, on the dais. The columns seemed to swim above him, columns which he had built and tested. It was not his hall anymore, not his fortress. For ages it had been. Once he had been Lord, and reveled in it. Slowly he pulled himself into a seated position and rested his head against the side of the throne.

One of the hands returned to stroke Mairon's hair, and he knew that if his Lord wished to crush his skull, it would have been done with the same uncaring ease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how does magic work in Tolkien's universe? Who fucking knows!


	6. Chapter 6

Mairon sat in the war room while commanders and generals filtered out, his fingers drumming nervously on the table. Across from him, on the opposite wall, was a map. He hated that map.

Helping shape Arda had not, apparently, endowed him or any of the other Maia with knowledge of it. It had taken months of scouting to even establish the coastline, much less the various hills, valleys, and forests of Arda. Mairon had tried breaking it into a grid, but the flying creatures he'd sent never stayed in their designated area, and scampered wherever they chose. When the despicable things returned, they would grovel and promise to do a better job, the next time. Then, they would make all the same mistakes and blunder into Sindar settlements, which had certainly alerted the enemy. Mairon killed the remaining creatures and was reduced to begging another Maia to go and finish the job, since he was too busy in Angband. She did, and now the damn project was done, so he could breathe easy.

It was a beautiful map, of course. Black ink on a massive sheet of pine paper, more than a dozen feet in each direction and meticulously drawn. Names were in red, and mountain ranges denoted by circular plots representing topography. Every gully, ravine, and hillside had been included, in case they proved strategically important.

Angband was marching to war after its long gathering of strength. Their forces would pour through the yawning gates and into the forests of Dorthonion, from passes in the mountains. The army would split, and a portion of it would go west, where the Teleri lived along the coast. The remainder would march southward, past the mountains where Ungoliant dwelt. Here, apparently, lay a stronghold of the elves. They were a canker on the otherwise uninterrupted landscape, and too close to Angband to risk their survival. Little was said on the matter, but Mairon knew his Lord feared any cooperation between the Noldor, who had yet to arrive in full, and the Sindar, who cowered behind their walls of trees in open defiance of their unworthiness. This was why they needed the map, and why countless years had been devoted to the perfection of their armies.

Mairon left the room with a giddy nervousness in his stomach; a sensation he had almost forgotten. He was doing something horrible, something which opposed the greater will of the Valar. The preparation and building had been just as forbidden, but war was a far more glaring sin. Closing the door behind him, he only made it several yards down the corridor before a large cloud of smoke and flame detached itself from the wall. The ceilings here were high, but Gothmog had not risen to his full height, and remained carefully hunched over.

"Mairon, we cannot keep supply lines across two plains and a mountain range," the Balrog hissed, keeping his voice low, "You never built outposts. No good will come of this war,"

"I thought we were altogether opposed to 'good', at this point," snapped Mairon. He glanced up and down the hallway, but no one else was truly in earshot, "What are you going to do, talk him out of it?"

The Balrog rumbled and moved behind its screen of ash, "I cannot. Thuringwethil could be persuaded to fly ahead and establish a route, but for roads or greater structures we have no time, and she is not easily won. We cannot take the ballistas," he paused after this last blow, "You could speak to him. He listens to thee."

"The last time I told him of my strategic shortcomings, he nearly broke my neck. Don't think I have forgotten your role in that, either," Mairon began to walk down the corridor, a sour expression on his face, "Thuringwethil will not go, I used up my last favor from her on that damn map. We could lose ages and ages of work, even without the ballistas. Simply growing an army of this size from a bottleneck in population, and then arming and training them. That doesn't matter to anyone else, of course. A war is in your best interests, whether we win it or not. Prove your value, in case he no longer remembers."

Gothmog swept after him, his taloned feet clicking loudly on the flagstones, "I would not survive this war, from what I have seen thus far. I do not wish to die without truly being of service."

"You do not wish to die because you fear the Doomsman's judgement."

"Do you not fear the same?" Gothmog replied.

Mairon picked up his pace and sped to the bottom of a winding stairwell. Unfortunately, the Balrog was able to compress himself enough to follow. A door at the last landing opened into a wide, subterranean street, which was bustling with orcs and other, fouler creatures. They gave both Maia a wide berth, and parted like a sea around them. Above them stretched haphazard buildings, perhaps four stories tall, stacked on top of one another and teeming with life. The rooftops nearly touched above the road, and were strung with dim, red lanterns. Carts, laden with raw materials and food, trundled past in pairs. Their orc drivers cast nervous glances at Mairon, who had devised the transport system himself and was notorious for his anger over mishandled supplies.

Now in public, Mairon was careful to watch his words, "I will speak with him," he said, watching as a team of workers loaded heavy pine boards into a crate, "A delay is the most you can hope for. I can bring you no more than that."

"Of course," the Balrog steadily grew, until he filled the street like an isolated storm. A string of lanterns was swallowed into his smoke and lost, perhaps to fuel the fires which flickered in his maw, "This I will not forget."

Mairon watched as the other Maia lumbered down the street, crushing a stall as he went. With the Valaraukar gone, the orcs crept out of their dwellings and watched Mairon with faces he had grown familiar with. He felt disgust growing in them as he looked upon them. They were imperfect and inefficient lumps of flesh, driven by chemical impulse and simple instinct, clumsy beyond measure. Perhaps an eighth of them were white, beneath a layer of grime, with eyes the color of open wounds. Albinos, a direct result of a limited population and rampant inbreeding, and weaker than their counterparts. Some had blood which would not clot to form scabs, or twisted legs with shrunken feet. A cruel mimicry of the elves.

His head held high, Mairon walked between the carts and simple dwellings, trying not to breathe in. The creatures left their waste in the streets, and it reeked nearly as badly as the algaea pits. Mud splattered up the sides of his boots, and clung tight to every step. Still the orcs parted, heads bowed. He rounded a sharp corner into a wider street, intended as a parade ground, to find that a caravan had been turned on its side. Splintered crates littered the road, their cargo of dried fish left out for any to take. None of the orcs had dared, though. The food was untouched, save for the workers who were busy gathering it up and washing it in troughs meant for pack animals.

"Forgive us, my Lord," said one, which bore a copper shock of fur and a thick scar across his neck. Its nose had been chewed off. The others stopped their work and bowed as deeply as they could, their clawed hands clasped together.

The anger in Mairon died, and he dismissed the orcs with a brief nod. As he passed, they began their work again, movements cautious and wary. Only when he turned the corner did he hear them begin to speak, and bless their good luck. Good luck in the fortress of Melkor, where the shining trees were forgotten things and rock bore down from above. He would need some luck himself, in the next couple of hours. He pressed on, until dwellings gave way to warehouses, already being emptied for the war effort. Nearly all of the administrative rooms were above, in the highest reaches of Angband. The deep hall was not far from where he walked now, however. Had he the time to change into a bat, he could have flown, but it left him feeling tired and cramped for days after.

The Maia turned down a narrow alley, which eventually became a tunnel as the rooftops met completely and blocked off the cavernous, false sky. The tunnel became an echoing stairwell, which allowed some gray light in through a number of arrowslits. Finally, he broke into the wide corridor which would take him to the deep hall. Torches crackled on the walls, and flared brighter in his presence.

The doors were shut. Mairon stared at the unforgiving stone, which was veined with gray and black like corpseflesh. Gothmog owed him a favor, but to use it so soon, and on something so mundane as opening a door, was absurd. He raised one hand and knocked, quickly. If no one answered, then he could say he had tried his utmost, and leave the matter alone.

With a deep groan, the left door swung inwards. Mairon entered carefully, and willed his heart to stop pattering with worry. He had held a bird, once, as it died. The rapid fluttering had been similar, and evoked no appealing imagery. This was going to end in failure, and he would be left with another wound to his person or his pride.

At the end of the hall waited Melkor, clad in dark armor and seated on his iron throne. He had recovered from raising Thangorodim in a short matter of weeks, apparently. At his feet, now, was his warhammer. The columns reflected in its glossy surface, which was blacker than the places between the stars. Melkor lifted his head at his Lieutenant's arrival, and stood with a great rattling of plate mail. He paused at the top of the dais, to look across the great room, before lumbering down the steps and moving towards Mairon with a long, loping stride.

They met halfway, beneath the echoing stone rafters and gargoyles (some statues, some not). Mairon steeled himself, and kept his eyes on the crown, rather than on his Lord's own. Today Melkor was much taller, and his armor bore spikes and barbs that had not been their previously. Like the fortress, he was growing, with or without Mairon's notice.

" _Have you been met with a new problem?_ " Melkor asked, his gauntleted hands hanging limply at his sides. From beneath the metal they smoked, ever burning.

"Yes, my Lord," began Mairon. The conversation, he feared, would be like walking on hot magma. "I understand that Angband must be decisive, and strike at Menegroth before they have time to ally themselves with Fëanor's forces, for any union between them would be dangerous. At all costs, such a thing should be prevented, but with our current numbers, I do not think it is advisable to launch a conflict immediately," he took a deep breath and gathered his words, "If we could delay for a year, perhaps, then a series of roads and bridges could be constructed to ferry supplies back and forth."

" _Roads and bridges which should have been built years ago._ "

The trick to not sinking is to keep moving, "I sent out parties six hundred years past, and only a few returned. They deserted, my Lord, and I could not control them, once they left these walls. Perhaps the orcs I have bred are imperfect, but I do not think they feared me enough to remain loyal. The work was never completed. Now that you have returned, they will not stray, I know this."

Melkor snorted a brief laugh, which had either saved or damned Mairon. He shifted his gaze down, to meet the Maia's eyes, " _Truly? I had not expected thee to lose control so easily. The Noldor move quick as rats. They may have their own scouts in the area, already_."

There was a glimpse of hope, there, a steady rock in the middle of a sea of molten stone, "The surveyors for the map did not see anything out of the ordinary. They would need to cross three mountain ranges to leave Hithlum, and are most likely in the south, in Nevrast. Besides, the elves of Doriath will not trust the Noldor, for their acts of kinslaying. They will not accept aid from the west, even if they see us on their threshold. Surely they will have heard of Alqualondë, by now. Fëanor's host remains but a small one, until the rest of their people arrive. After what transpired with the ships, I doubt they will be willing to cooperate with one another, and much less the Sindar with them," Mairon shifted his weight uneasily, and kept his gaze on the Silmarils, "A year is all I suggest. Time to build a supply route, and bring the machines built over the past ages. The ballistas can shoot three iron bolts in a minute, and I've had orcs trained to operate them. We can shred an army before they get within a bow's range. There are catapults and siege-engines as well, should it come to that."

_"I would not allow you on the field of battle, to oversee their operation. You will remain here, regardless of when we march."_

"Understood, yes. These machines are difficult to build and repair, but easy use. If the enemy gets close enough to seriously damage any of them, we would have greater problems than some smashed timbers. Even the Noldor, who are most knowledgeable of the elves, are grossly unprepared. They could not even comprehend killing, much less war. The Sindar will be even more inept. The ballistas will turn them to pulp fit only for gorecrows, if you permit me time to build the roads."

His Lord nodded slowly, " _You have proven the usefulness of such devices to me. This is an acceptable arrangement. You have a year to create supply lines and further prepare. It seems my generals owe thee_."

Mairon smiled, largely out of nervousness, "Thank you, my Lord. I am in your debt."

" _When have you not been? I will require thine attendance here again tonight. You will will know when_."

"My Lord," the Maia bowed low and turned. War was still coming, and there was no way to halt its slow advance, but he had time to prepare. Mairon allowed himself a true grin as he passed between the stone doors and into the corridor. Around him, the torches flared brightly, and licked a foot up the walls.

Gothmog was waiting a dozen feet away, hunched in the shadows. When he saw the expression on Mairon's face, he condensed himself into a more quadrupedal shape and shook a smoldering fist in silent victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really screwed up and mentioned the sun before it existed properly. Woops ): gotta edit that I guess


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops I am back, forgive me for the super long absence.

It was dark in the great hall when Mairon entered, one hand held tentatively out before him. He could not see, without the faintest glimmer of light to guide him. Even the torches in the corridor had been snuffed out, though the smell of smoke still lingered in the air. Darkness had fallen recently, then. Recently and intentionally.

Mairon nearly tripped into the deep gouge which marred the floor of the hall, correcting his balance at the last second. Instead of leaping over, like he usually did, he felt his way down slowly and clambered up the other side. If any of his subordinates saw him, lieutenant of Angband, crawling like a pathetic animal in a muddy trench, he would have been humiliated.

Only his superior was present, now. He could sense burning hair and flesh; the smells which wafted from funeral pyres across Arda as the Sindar honored their dead. Mairon had been responsible for so many of those ceremonies, and this was where it had gotten him. Blindly stumbling through a hall he had built, his arms outstretched. He could force fear out of himself, but he could never forget the feeling. The Maia remembered fear now, but there was a twinge of anger underneath it all.

In the dark, Mairon’s mind began to imagine dangers where there were none. He could feel movement just behind him, or hear the whispers that came from the spaces between atoms, inviting him to listen. Without his sight, all other sensations were magnified, and it took little else to conjure paranoid unease that chipped at his resolve. Whatever false terrors he could create in his own head paled in comparison to the real one which waited at the end of the hall.

At last, Mairon’s foot caught on a flagstone, and he knew he was close to his destination. He had been dragged across that place thousands of years ago, his eyes gouged out, to beg forgiveness for some imagined slight. When Angband had been refurbished, he kept that imperfection, in case he needed it again. The throne would be less than a dozen feet away. Mairon let himself fall to his knees. Remaining like this for long would make the muscles of his thighs ache and twinge, and he was familiar with the sort of bruises these stones left. He could focus on that, instead of the fear and indignity. 

 _“You have forgotten how loud a thought can be,”_ said a voice as familiar and cold as gravedirt. It came from somewhere far above, yet close enough to touch, _“A thought is louder than words, Mairon.”_

“Forgive me, Lord,” the Maia said, his voice flat.

_“Approach.”_

Mairon rose, and felt the blood drain out of his face. He was suddenly glad of his blindness, but realized with a lurch that he couldn’t see the Silmarils. They should have blazed cruelly, without any other light to compete with them, but they were nowhere to be seen. It shocked him so much that he failed to count his steps up to the throne, and only realized his mistake when he bumped against something solid. 

A cold hand gripped the Maia’s arm and turned him roughly around, while another snaked around his stomach and pinned him close. His Lord wore armor, as always, and the barbs dug painfully into Mairon’s flesh. This had happened before. Many, many times before. The orcs didn’t notice, but the Valaraukar did, and how they resented him for it. Fools. Mairon remembered to breathe, and sucked in a gulp of smoky air.

 _“There is new anger in thee,_ ” Melkor murmured, his words laced with enough power to shatter rock, _“I would offer my congratulations, if I were not on its receiving end. I thought thee incapable of real emotion, Mairon. I thought thee impenetrable.”_

“You thought in error,” the Maia said, his voice modulated into neutrality. His mind, swimming with fear, betrayed him. Standing like this, with the back of his head pressed against Melkor’s chest, was a vulnerable position. He took a deep breath and tried to image the view he would have commanded from the dias, had there been light, “I am capable of many things, Lord. If I have failed you in some way, tell me, and I will amend it.”

 _“So you say”,_ his Lord moved backwards suddenly, and collapsed into the throne with a rattle of metal. Mairon was dragged with him, and found himself curled within the Valar’s lap, one leg thrown across an armrest, _“You have changed, even if you do not see it. The Valaraukar are afraid of you, Gothmog tells me. The orcs think you a god of fire.”_  

It was so dark, Mairon thought to himself. There was nothing in creation but them, suspended somewhere outside of time and space. When he closed his eyes, it made no difference. Was this a void? The Void? He chose to keep them shut, the only barrier between himself and a monster which had challenged the Valar and torn Arda to pieces.

Mairon felt a cold, blistered hand come to rest against his cheek, and brush hair away from his face. His Lord could look upon him, while Mairon was left blind as a cave fish, his expressions revealing everything and hiding nothing. Even his thoughts could be picked apart and analyzed. The unfairness galled him.

 _“Some in this fortress think you the true evil. The truth is a dangerous thing,"_ Melkor’s thumb found its way to the corner of his eye and pressed lightly against the lid, not enough to hurt, _“Why did you lie to me about the deserters?”_

When Mairon flinched, he brought his head up a fraction of an inch and felt a sharp pain in his eye. His own fault. Terror rolled in his gut, given the opportunity, and he found himself grasping at thoughts in desperation. It was a combination of shame and fear, laid bare on his face, “Forgive me, there were no deserters,” Marion said, his voice unsteady, “I did not send parties because I was afraid to start a war alone.”

 _“Try harder, Lieutenant,”_ Melkor’s hair brushed against Mairon’s face, accompanied by the creak of shifting armor. His breath was cold enough to burn, _“That is the one machination I cannot pick from your bright little mind. I will not be denied this, of all things, from my lieutenant. Why did you lie to me?”_

“Home,” Mairon said, his breath coming in quick gasps, “I thought if I stayed here the Valar would come before you did, and I could go back,” he opened his eyes, feeling the weight of the stone above him. Every word had echoed in the room, and came back to him a heartbeat later, to amplify his treason, “What I built here is unharmed, I never damaged Angband or held anything back, I swear it. Oh, Lord,” he said, nearly praying, “the ages were cold.”

The hand on Mairon’s cheek slid down, and paused for a heavy moment at his neck. Then it kept going, unfastening the clasps of his shirt and pressing gently against his ribs.

_“This is the truth?”_

“Please,” said Mairon, his hands clinging to some sharp ridge of armor, tight enough to cut. No more words came, and he let himself be drawn upwards into a crushing kiss. Melkor’s other hand was in his hair, making it smoulder and feeling anything but warm. When his Lord yanked his head back to expose his neck, Mairon didn’t make a noise. Everything echoed too loudly, in the hall.

A minute later and he was whimpering, fingers clawing for purchase against the smooth throne, the metal of Melkor’s breastplate. Mairon’s shame could have melted ice, because after thousands of years he was still brought low, with a hand around his neck and bruises forming near his mouth. He had thought himself immune of _this_ sort of emotion, but perhaps he was not immune but incapable, without his Lord. The idea burned and festered, and he let it fill his mind, blocking out all other thought. All other truth. 

Melkor, apparently, had no interest in his own needs. He made Mairon beg, though, made him plead and bargain. When his Lieutenant was allowed to finish, cursing and wiping tears from his eyes, Melkor helped him to his feet. 

The darkness lifted suddenly, and Mairon was left naked and shivering beneath the torchlight. He found his clothes in a rumpled pile and pulled them on, his hands unsteady. There would be bruises, though not the kind he had been anticipating. His Lord didn’t like it if he healed them, of course. The Valaraukar and the other Maia had to be thrown a bone of proof once in a while, enough to keep the speculation flowing behind Mairon’s back. He wound his hair back into a braid and glanced up at Melkor.

“Should I instruct the Valaraukar to guard your crown, my Lord?” Mairon asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It came away bloody.

Melkor frowned, disapproval rolling off him like a tide, _“No. Do not speak of its absence. It is no concern of yours.”_

When Mairon was left alone in the hall, he took a couple deep, shaking breaths. His efforts had been successful, somehow. He had hidden something, kept a secret that only he knew. It was his only real possession, that truth protected by repeated lies to his master. 

Mairon had run this enterprise by himself for three ages. He was entitled to keep his true motivations to himself.

 

 


End file.
